going to do a ‘direct push,' and then we'll try this way again next time. I'm going to inject the undiluted medication right into your vein. It stings a little bit, but it's faster, and I think for today you'll be happier if we get this over with quickly.” Alex couldn't disagree with her, but the “direct push” sounded very scary.
Her neat small hands took Alex's hand, and she carefully examined the vein at the top of it, and then injected the medication into it, while Alex tried not to pass out from the sheer emotions. And as soon as she was finished she asked Alex to press hard on the vein for a fall five minutes, during which time she wrote out a prescription for the Cytoxan, and went to get out a single pill and a glass of water. She handed it to Alex, and watched her take it.
“Fine,” she said, satisfied. “You've now had your first dose of chemotherapy. I'd like to see you back here exactly a week from today, and I want to hear from you if you think you're having any problems. Don't be shy, don't hesitate, don't tell yourself you're being a nuisance. If anything seems unusual to you at all, or you just feel rotten, call me. We can see what we can do to help you.” She handed Alex a printed sheet of side effects that were normal, and those that weren't. “I'm on call twenty-four hours a day, and I don't mind hearing from my patients.” She smiled warmly and stood up. She was a lot smaller than Alex and she seemed very dynamic. She was lucky, Alex thought, as she looked at her, she was doing her job. It was just like the people who came to her, with terrible legal problems, and frightening lawsuits. She could take care of them, she could do her best for them. But the problem and the anguish were theirs, not hers. Suddenly, she envied the doctor.
Alex was stunned to realize as she left that she had been at the oncologist's for two hours. It was just after two o'clock, and her hand was still sore as she hailed a cab. There was a Band-Aid over where the doctor had injected the medications. Alex was beginning to learn all the terms and phrases. It was information she would have been happier not knowing, and she felt enormously relieved as she rode back to the office. She didn't feel sick, she hadn't died, nothing terrible had happened to her. At least the doctor knew what she was doing. She thought about buying a wig as they drove down Lexington Avenue. It seemed depressing to be thinking about it now. But the doctor was probably right. It would be less upsetting to have one on hand when she needed it, rather than going to stores, hiding her balding head with a scarf on. The thought of it was far from cheering.
She paid the cab and went up to her office, and Liz was away from her desk when she got in. Alex answered her calls from the messages on her desk, and she started to relax finally a little while later. The sky had not fallen in. So far, she had survived it. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all, she told herself, as Brock came in, in his shirtsleeves, with a stack of papers. It was four o'clock, and she'd been busy for the past two hours.
“How'd it go?” he asked with a look of concern. There was always something very nice about the way he asked her. It wasn't cloying and intrusive, it was just very obvious that he cared, and that touched her. He was almost like a younger brother.
“So far so good. It was scary as hell though.” She didn't know him well enough to tell him she'd cried, that she'd been to hell and back, waiting for the injection to kill her.
“You're a good kid,” he said, “do you want a cup of coffee?”
“I'd love one.”
He was back in five minutes and they worked for an hour, and she left promptly at five o'clock, so she could go home to Annabelle. It had been a pretty good day, but a tiring one, all things considered.
“Thanks for all the help,” she said to Brock before she left. They were starting a case together for a small employer who was being sued in a bogus discrimination case. This time the woman